


give the game away

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, M/M, Painplay, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, dom/sub themes, eventual kink negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8101381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: They don't like each other. They sure as fuck aren't dating. It doesn't keep them from hooking up, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

> imagine dylan and mitch never became friends. now imagine they both wanted up on that anyway. this is one way that could've gone. thanks to ari for chatficcing the first part of this with me, and thanks to S. for encouraging me and reading it through. y'all are the real MVPs.
> 
> they are both 17 at the start of this fic and are both 18 at the end. also, i'm aware that this goes against fandom's general consensus that their heart eyes can be seen from space; trust me, i'm legally blind and i can still see that shit. this is not that story, though, so if that's what you're looking for, probably read something else.

_u skated like shit tonite_

Dylan stares at the text for a minute. Overtime games blow, and shootouts blow, and losing blows. He knows he didn't really have his best game, and this—

_and what the fuck was that shooting. like seriously its not that hard. hit the puck with ur stick dipshit dont whiff that might help fool ur team into thinking ur useful for a little longer_

_we both know better tho_

"Dyls?" he hears, and Dylan whips his head up to see Connor's worried face. "What's up?"

He forces out a breath and tries to smile. "I hate losing," he says. "You know how it is."

"Yeah," Connor says. He glances at Dylan's phone, and Dylan can see the moment he chooses to not ask. "Not your fault. We'll do better next time."

"Obviously," Dylan says, rolling his eyes. He waits until Connor walks away to glance back down at his phone as it buzzes again.

_skype me when u get home_

-0-

Dylan takes his time getting home and getting to his room, but he's not fooling anyone. His laptop and his supplies are already on his bedstand; it's not like this was planned ahead of time, but on nights when only one of them has a game, it happens more often than it doesn't. He strips down to his boxers and makes sure his door is locked before climbing into his bed and opening Skype.

Marner is already flushed when the call connects, naked on his bed and stroking himself. "Were you even trying to score?" he asks, turning his wrist on the upstroke and letting out a hitched breath.

Dylan has to swallow hard, but his voice comes out even, just a little mocking. Perfect. "Couldn't even wait half an hour for me to get home? Christ, you're easy."

"What can I say, you proving once again that my hockey is way fucking better than your sorry attempts really does it for me," Marner says. "Probably why I get off so much. You're a goddamn trainwreck to watch."

It's fucked up and Dylan knows it, the way Marner's lip curls as he mouths off and jerks off on camera for Dylan. It's even more fucked up that Dylan's hard from it, that watching Marner and listening to the shit he's saying is enough to make Dylan stick a hand in his boxers.

"You get off on it too?" Marner asks, nodding his head at his screen. Dylan's laptop is positioned so Marner can see exactly what he's doing. Dylan doesn't want to think about why, or how long it had taken both of them to figure out how best to show off what they were doing. "God, if you get off on your own terrible fucking play, you must just constantly have a boner." He smirks. "That why you're always skating like you have concrete boots?"

"At least my skating speed doesn't say anything about how fast I come," Dylan retorts. "Down the ice and back in a few seconds, sure, but it doesn't even take you that long to fucking embarrass yourself."

Marner shudders a little and thrusts up into his hand. He's leaking everywhere, and Dylan grips himself hard. It used to be something that slowed him down, gave him a little breathing room. It's more likely to get him closer to the edge, now, but he sometimes forgets that.

"Next time," Dylan says roughly. "Next time you lose to us, I'm gonna tie your hands up and suck you off until you're almost there, and then I'm gonna stop, let you calm down." He strokes himself in time to the way Marner's breathing, rough and heavy. "And then I'm gonna do it again, and again, and again, and then maybe I'll let you come."

"Fuck," Marner chokes out.

"Two months," Dylan adds. "Have fun thinking about it and having way shittier orgasms on your own until then."

"I should," Marner says, turning to look right at Dylan through the camera. "Just. Find someone here to hook up with. Get what I need from someone who's actually fun to be around, then come back and tell you how much better it was than anything you've ever done."

Dylan shrugs. "Like you can get it any better than you can from me."

"Fuck you," Marner says. He closes his eyes and his hips pump up a few times, and then he's coming all over himself.

"Oh no, you don't get that until my season’s done," Dylan drawls. "Which is a _long_ way off."

Marner is panting and red-faced and covered in come, but he still manages to grin at Dylan as he runs his fingers through the mess he's made. "That just means you gotta wait to do this," he says, and then he puts his fingers in his mouth.

"I hate you so fucking much," Dylan says. He can't look away, doesn't even bother trying. Marner's an asshole, but he's exactly as hot as he thinks he is, especially like this.

"Right back at you," Marner croons. "You gonna come, or can you not even manage that without someone there to make you look better than you are? Sure seemed like that was your motto earlier."

"Shut your fucking mouth," Dylan groans. He's so goddamn close.

"Maybe you need an assist there," Marner goes on, as if Dylan hadn't said anything. "I should call someone. DeBrincat's been padding your numbers all season; maybe he'd be a good choice."

Dylan shudders. "Don’t you fucking dare."

"Raddysh, then," Marner says. "Hell, maybe both of them. It might take that much effort to actually get you to do something."

"You want to see what I can do? Fine." Dylan’s more than happy to show Marner what he can’t have. He grabs the lube from the bedstand and slicks up his fingers as he kicks off his boxers, then widens his legs and pushes in with two right away.

"How long did you have to practice that move to pull it off?" Marner says shakily. "Bet it took forever."

"Like it's not getting you hard again," Dylan gasps out. "So fucking easy, Marner."

"Fuck, why are we doing this?" Marner complains. "It’s stupid. I could just drive down there—"

"No."

Marner makes a beautiful noise of frustration. "Fine, just fuck yourself, then."

"Don't mind if I do," Dylan says, and starts fucking himself with his fingers. "Better than you can, anyway."

That makes Marner laugh, long and loud. "Not even close, Strome, and you know it."

Dylan has an unwelcome flashback to Christmas, when he’d borrowed Ryan’s car and driven out to Markham. Marner had kept him waiting at the curb for so long Dylan almost gave up, and then they’d parked up and left the engine running so their dicks didn’t freeze off when they hooked up in the back seat. They were at it for long enough that the battery ran flat and Marner had had to call his brother for a jump start. Dylan still doesn't think he'd be able to look Chris in the eye.

"That reminds me," Dylan gasps, "you still owe me your half of the bill for getting Ryan’s car cleaned."

"Told you then, telling you now: fuck off, I'm not paying," Marner says. "I didn't know it was his car or I wouldn't have jizzed on the seat."

"Not my fault you have no aim," Dylan replies.

"Not my fault you have no common decency," Marner retorts.

Dylan spreads his legs wider and adds another finger. "Decency is _not_ what you’re after."

"If it was I wouldn't be fucking you," Marner agrees.

Dylan moans shamelessly, eyes locked on the way it makes Marner squirm. "I could always just hang up. Not like I need you for anything now." 

"Go ahead," Marner says, shrugging. "I already got off. I'm not the _needy_ one here, Strome."

Dylan shrugs. "Okay." He reaches with his free hand to shut his laptop.

"Close that and I don't fuck you up after the season," Marner threatens.

"Now who’s needy?" Dylan says, smirking at his laptop.

"Or I'll be _nice_ to you," Marner goes on. "Treat you nice and sweet. Is that what you want from me?"

Dylan flips him off and goes back to focusing on _getting_ off.

"You wouldn't even know what to do with that, would you?" Marner taunts. "Bet you wouldn't get off. Bet you'd barely even get hard."

"Bet I’d be happier punching you in the face," Dylan pants. He’s so close.

Marner laughs. "Aww, now who's being sweet?" He lowers his voice. "I have three days off. I could make it look like bruising you got in a game. You know I could."

"Fuck off." Dylan’s leaking steadily now, just from fingering himself. It has absolutely nothing to do with Marner.

"You've got a nice one there on your abs," Marner continues. "What if I pinched you? Right around the edges, made the bruising spread. Shoved you down and held you right there."

Okay, screw it, Dylan’s done putting on a show. He wraps his hand around his dick and rolls over onto his stomach, so he can rock forward into his fist and back onto his fingers.

"Yeah," Marner croons. "Is that getting you there? Thinking about me scratching you up, biting you while I fuck you?"

It totally is, but Dylan won’t ever admit it. "Nah, I’m just getting your ugly face out of sight."

"Good thing you didn't look at a mirror," Marner throws back. "You'd lose your boner so fast you'd cry."

"Weak," Dylan says, and it’s the last thing he manages before he’s hurtling over the edge.

When he catches his breath and pulls his fingers out, Marner hums. " _That_ was weak," he tells Dylan. "Five out of ten. I'm being generous."

Dylan rolls over and uses the back of his hand to wipe jizz off his chin.

"Maybe six," Marner allows.

He’s hard again, the liar. "I’d hang up if I had a free hand," Dylan says.

"And risk me telling people you didn't even bother getting me off?" Marner mocks. "Nah."

Dylan shrugs, grabbing some tissues to clean up his mess. "Like I said, you’re easy."

"Have I ever once denied that?"

Dylan snorts. "All the time. You did it, like, ten minutes ago."

Marner bares his teeth. "Only when it pisses you off, sweetheart. You know I don't give a shit."

Dylan tosses the tissues in the trash and reaches into the bedstand. "You’re so easy I figured I should invest in some toys," he says, bringing a plug into view. "This’ll last longer than your hair trigger."

"Oh _fuck,_ " Marner breathes out.

"I have the day off tomorrow," Dylan says lightly, "so maybe I’ll just leave this in for a while and think about how much better it is than your sad excuse for a dick."

Marner bites his lip hard, but he doesn't make a sound.

Dylan takes his time slicking up the plug and easing it inside himself. It's not huge or anything, but it's definitely there. "Fuck yeah, that’s better." It’s almost too much, his nerves still on fire after coming his brains out. His dick twitches and he gasps, but it makes Marner make an unholy noise. Worth it.

Dylan sighs, picking up his boxers. "Well, these are a lost cause." He’d kept them on while Marner got off, and they're pretty gross. "I should send you a laundry bill."

"Your mess, your problem," Marner gasps out.

Dylan ignores him and grabs a clean pair. "Now that I think about, I’ve kinda worked up an appetite. What do you think, Marner, should I get dressed and hit up the kitchen?" Dylan for sure isn’t brave enough to wear the plug outside his locked bedroom, but Marner doesn’t know that.

"No," Marner says shakily. "That's fucking _mine._ Don't you dare show anyone."

Dylan’s knees give out and he almost falls on the floor at the possessive tone in Marner's voice, and that's when Marner comes.

"Yeah," Dylan says, his voice just as shaky as Marner's was a second ago. "I—I wouldn’t."

"I know," Marner says, gasping. "I know."

Fuck, what are they even doing? Dylan wants to touch him so bad it’s almost enough to make him cry. "We're so fucked up," he mumbles.

Marner laughs a little. "But we're fucked up the same way, right?"

Dylan shrugs and tries to pass it off, because—sort of, yeah, but also he's pretty sure Marner doesn't want to cuddle after they both get off. The getting off stuff, that works great, but the after stuff...

"This is going to sound weird," Marner says, "but can you—" He cuts himself off and puts his clean hand over his face.

"Can I what?" This is new. This is… they don't ever ask each other for anything. Especially not after.

Dylan can hear him sniffling. "Just—talk, for a while? About whatever. I’m kinda..." Marner sighs. "That was a lot." He hasn’t made a move to clean up again. It must feel gross, but Dylan isn’t in the mood to chirp him now.

He starts rambling about Ryan's season instead, how the Isles have been doing, what their playoffs might look like, how frustrated Ryan is that they’ve slipped to the wild card spot. He goes on and on for half an hour as Marner's breathing gets steadier, less shaky and more deep and even.

"Don’t fall asleep on me," Dylan says.

"I'm not," Marner says, but Dylan kind of doesn't believe him.

"Go have a shower," he commands, and Marner flips him off.

"I can’t fucking stand up, dude."

"You can't sleep like that," Dylan argues. "You're a fucking mess. You'll stick to the sheets."

"Not like you’re any better," Marner complains.

"I'm not falling asleep," Dylan counters.

Marner snorts. "Only 'cause you have a buttload of sex toys."

Dylan grins and shifts. Talking and sitting still for half an hour means that he's not at all hard, but moving... yeah. Yeah, that's good.

Marner glares at him. "You’re the worst. If I try to get it up again I’ll die."

Dylan hums and reaches into his boxers. "You should shower, then."

"Hate you," Marner says as he fumbles for something to clean up with.

"Likewise," Dylan responds on autopilot. He's... not actually sure that's true anymore, but like fuck is he going to let on. It's not like he's suddenly in love with Marner, anyway, so for now he's content to lay back and jerk off and listen to Marner mutter insults at him over Skype.

Whatever. Nobody's perfect.

-0-

They fuck around on Skype for the rest of the season, but they don't actually see each other face-to-face until after Oshawa tramples the Otters. Marner's leaning against the wall when Dylan stumbles out of the locker room. He's feeling raw and bruised, broken open everywhere; going out in five fucking sucks, especially when everyone knows but nobody's saying that it was Connor's last chance at the Mem Cup. It was Dylan's last fucking shot at winning something important with the best friend he's ever had, and he could barely manage to stay upright. He sure hadn't fucking scored.

He wants a do-over. He wants to go back out and shoot at the net until he finds the back every time. He wants to wake up from this fucking terrible dream so he can go out and win and win and win until there's a Cup with his name on it in front of him.

"Strome," Marner says. He doesn't move towards Dylan, just tilts his head back, baring the length of his throat as he looks up at Dylan. "How's it feel, huh?" He laughs, short, bitter. "Congrats. Now we're both losers."

Dylan hears Connor suck in a sharp breath behind him, and, fuck. Whatever he and Marner have going on, Connor's not a part of it, doesn't deserve to be in the blast radius. He levels Marner with a glare and is only a little placated when he lifts a hand in surrender.

"Davo," Dylan says quietly, turning around and reaching for Connor's arm. "Hey. Go back to the hotel, okay? Get the guys together, put in a movie, make Brinksy be your body pillow." He gives Connor the best smile he can manage. It's not much and he knows it. "Order room service chicken fingers. You love those nasty things."

Connor looks past Dylan. He looks somehow worse than he had when the final buzzer sounded. "Dyls…"

"Go to the hotel, Connor," Dylan repeats quietly. "I'll find my way back."

Suddenly there's someone at Dylan's side, and he's not sure what it says about him that he knows it's Marner without having to check. "I'm sorry, Davo," Marner says, and he sounds honest. "Fucking sucks. You played well, man."

"Minus three," Connor mutters.

"Plus-minus is bullshit," Marner scoffs, and Connor's face loses a tiny thread of its anger. Dylan isn't used to feeling any sort of gratitude towards Marner, but he'd go to his knees right here in the hall if Marner could make that awful look disappear completely. "Look, I'm in the same hotel as you, okay? I promise I'm not kidnapping your BFF. I'm in 241."

Connor looks from Marner to Dylan and back again. "Same hotel?"

It's news to Dylan, but he nods. "If you need me, call. Okay?"

That makes Connor pull a face, which is so much better than the haunted, frustrated expression he's been wearing since they got off the ice. "Yeah, no. Just be back before the bus leaves."

He sighs, deep and sad, and Dylan almost shoves Marner away, almost tells him to fuck off and leave him with Connor, but Connor gives him the world's tiniest, shittiest smile and nods. "Talk to you in the morning, Stromer."

Dylan leans forward and pulls Connor into a hug, clinging tight for a moment before letting go. "If you need me," he repeats.

"Go," Connor says firmly.

Dylan nods and steps back, and Connor turns and goes back into the locker room.

"I didn't mean," Marner starts quietly.

"Don't," Dylan says sharply. "Doesn't fucking matter."

"Right," Marner says. The acid is bleeding back into his voice, and it settles part of Dylan's mind even as it makes his shoulders hunch. "Fucking forgot who I was talking to for a minute there. God forbid anyone use actual manners when they're talking to you."

And the thing is—there are rules here. There always have been, even if they haven't talked about them, haven't talked about anything they're doing enough to acknowledge that it's actually a _thing_. It's only ever about them; it's not about their teams. Nobody else gets dragged through the mud.

"Okay," Dylan says grudgingly. "Yeah. Apology accepted."

"Good," Marner says, and they fall into silence as they walk into the parking lot.

Marner drove; it's less than an hour from his house to Oshawa, and Dylan doesn't really know how to process the idea of Marner putting the thought and the effort into getting here tonight. Trying not to think about it gets him from the rink to the parking lot of the hotel, but he hesitates once the car is in park.

"We don't have to," Marner says, staring straight out the window. "It's whatever."

Strangely enough, that's what makes the weird feeling in Dylan's chest loosen. "Nah, let's," he says. "Unless you're punking out on me."

Marner snorts heavily. "Right. Say what you want about me, Strome, but I have never once punked out on you."

That's… true. Dylan shrugs instead of admitting it. "241, you said?"

"Let's go," Marner replies, getting out of the car.

Dylan follows him through the hotel, up to the second floor and all the way down the hallway. The room is the last one in the building, around a corner and past the vending machines from the rest of the hall, and Dylan raises an eyebrow when they reach the door.

"This way you can cry about your shitty season without anyone hearing you," Marner says, saccharine-sweet. "Except me, of course, but I don't need to hear you cry about it to know the truth."

"Open the fucking door," Dylan says. He needs to be inside now, needs to shove Marner into something and rough them both up a little.

Marner grins at him, sharp and angry. "Say please."

Dylan crowds him back into the door, shoving until Marner's back is pressed against the wood. "Open the fucking door," he says again, right into Marner's ear, and then he ducks down and bites hard.

Marner shudders against him, head knocking back into the door. He reaches for Dylan with both hands, one curving around his hip and the other going beneath his shirt to pinch hard at his abs. "Say please," he gasps out.

"I will go back to my room," Dylan mumbles against his skin. "I'll tell Davo you punked out on me."

"And then you won't get off," Marner says. "And I won't help your sorry ass out on Skype when you call. It's not that hard to say, Strome. Even you can comprehend that."

Dylan waits, pretends like he's weighing his options, but there was really never any doubt that he'd give in eventually. "Fine," he hisses. " _Please_ open the door, Mitchell."

"See," Marner coos. "I knew you could do it."

He shoves Dylan away and turns to slide his keycard in the lock. As soon as it flashes green Dylan's back on him, shoving him through the door and not stopping until Marner's against the wall, holding himself away from it with his arms. Dylan crowds against him, using every bit of size he's got to loom.

"You got a plan here?" he asks, rocking against Marner's ass. He slides one hand up Marner's shirt and rolls a nipple between his fingers. "Because I've got plans. All sorts of plans."

"You planned for me?" Marner says, sticky-sweet. "Aw, Strome. Your plans are for total shit, which is why I came prepared with a few of my own." He bucks against Dylan, startling him into letting go, and turns before Dylan can slam back into him. He's got a wicked smile on his face, brittle around the edges. "We're doing things my way."

"Says fucking who?" Dylan asks, laughing a little incredulously.

"Says me," Marner says carelessly. "My room, my rules." He grins wickedly. "I promise you'll come tonight. Eventually."

This is something Dylan should ask about, probably, should talk out and think through before he agrees to anything. Instead, he sighs and rolls his eyes. "I say stop, you stop," he says firmly.

Marner rolls his eyes. "No fucking shit."

"I mean it," Dylan says.

"No fucking shit," Marner repeats. "Do you honestly think I'm that kind of asshole, Strome? Because if you do, you can go back to your own room and never talk to me again, thanks." He's tense against the wall, and Dylan—

He doesn't feel bad, not necessarily, but that's the second line he's crossed tonight. He closes his eyes and swallows a little. "No. I don't think you're that kind of asshole." He takes a deep breath. "Sorry."

There's silence, but Dylan doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't want to see whatever expression is on Marner's face right now.

Finally, Marner taps his hip. "Colors," he says firmly. "Green, everything's okay. Yellow, we slow down and figure out details for whatever's not working. Red, we stop immediately. I'm gonna check in every so often. Got it?"

"Yeah," Dylan says, swallowing. "I'm not following orders, so if that's what you're planning—"

Marner snorts inelegantly. "I've met you. What the fuck makes you think I'd think for a second that you'd do anything I told you to do?"

"Sometimes you think stupid shit," Dylan says, finally opening his eyes so he can see the wonderfully pissy expression on Marner's face. "I wanted to make sure you weren't having a brain lapse tonight."

Marner's smile gleams in the half light from the window. "Tell me now if there's anything you don't want me to do. Or say."

"Nothing about the team," Dylan says. Marner nods; it's a given, but it's still good to say. "I don't give a shit about bruises or marks."

Marner nods. "This heads anywhere you don't want it going, say a color," he says. "Don't wait for me to ask."

Dylan nods, and then Marner's got both hands in his hair, yanking him down so he can bite his way into Dylan's mouth. He doesn't hold back at all; he pulls until Dylan's exactly where he wants, and he kisses and bites and shoves his tongue into Dylan's mouth until Dylan's dizzy with it, panting a little and hard in his pants.

"Bed," Marner orders roughly, shoving at him. "I'm stripping. You should."

Dylan wants to wait, mostly to see what Marner's reaction would be, but he's kind of curious to see where this is headed; he's been promised an orgasm, too, and he absolutely wouldn't put it past Marner to make him come in his pants first thing and then tease him for the rest of the night if his doesn't follow directions this early on. He strips down to his boxers and flops back across the bed, watching as Marner takes his clothing off methodically, folding it piece by piece and setting it on the dresser as he goes. He doesn't stop at his boxers, and before long he's completely naked, observing Dylan coolly from the end of the bed.

"You're a fucking slob," he says frankly, looking very pointedly around the room at Dylan's discarded clothing.

"This isn't news," Dylan drawls. He's aware of his failings in the housekeeping department. If Marner wants him to get anything out of this, he's going to have to try harder.

Marner snorts. "Of course it's not fucking news. It's just disgusting."

"Fucking bite me," Dylan says lazily, stretching his arms up above his head and baring his neck. It's the stupid sort of shit he'd say to anyone, but there's intent here that he didn't necessarily mean.

Before he can say anything, Marner climbs onto the bed and straddles Dylan's thighs. He's not heavier or stronger than Dylan, but he's been sitting out for two rounds; he's well-rested, if nothing else, and Dylan skated a full game tonight. It's not like he really wants Marner to go anywhere, either, but he wriggles around a little for show.

"Fucking stay still," Marner warns, pinching at his abs again. "I swear to god, I'll be _nice_."

It's an awful idea, and Dylan can't help the face he makes. "Fuck off."

"Stay still, then," Marner repeats, and then he scoots around until he's braced over Dylan's chest. He glances up and smirks. "I really loved how you could barely even skate out there. Real fucking smooth, right? All that crashing into the boards and falling on your ass."

Before Dylan can retort, Marner ducks down and bites hard at his collarbone. He digs his teeth in hard, then worries at the mark; Dylan can tell by the time he leans back up, satisfaction evident on his face, that it's going to bruise beautifully.

"You should have just used your stick to help you balance," he goes on. "It's not like you were using it to shoot the puck, am I right?"

Dylan can feel his face burning; it's not true, but it's not exactly false, either. He turns his face away so he doesn't have to meet Marner's gaze, and Marner taps at his jaw. "Can't handle the truth? I don't know why I'm fucking shocked."

"At least we made it out of the first round," Dylan mutters.

Marner taps more forcefully at his jaw. "Yeah, you did such a great job with me out of the lineup," he mocks. "I was under concussion protocols the rest of that goddamned series."

"Shoulda kept your head up," Dylan shoots back.

"Blaming me for my own injury," Marner says, mock-surprise in his voice. "That's a fucking garbage move, Strome." Dylan opens his mouth, not sure what he's going to spit out next, but Marner claps his hand across it and forces Dylan to look back at him. "Color," he says firmly.

Dylan raises both eyebrows and licks pointedly at Marner's hand. Marner makes a face and drags his hand down Dylan's chest, but he leans back. "Green, asshole," Dylan says, bucking his hips a little. "I like it better over Skype, where I can mute you when I want to actually get off."

Marner laughs and grinds back against Dylan. "Really seems like this isn't doing it for you," he mocks. There's no point in denying it, so Dylan just moves his hips again, seeing how much Marner will let him get away with, if Dylan rubbing off against his ass while still in his boxers is what he's got planned for tonight.

"Yeah, no," Marner says, kneeling back up. Something flashes across his face, but it's gone before Dylan can parse what it is. "You ready?"

"I can handle whatever you think you can throw at me," Dylan says, rolling his eyes.

Marner's eyes go dark, and his smile is sharp. "We'll see," he says.

Before Dylan can reply, Marner reaches out and pinches his nipple hard. Dylan shouts and bucks a little as Marner twists it back and forth between his fingers, looking down at Dylan with a smirk playing across his face. He leans in until their faces are almost touching. Close enough to kiss, if that was a thing they did. "This is for the pass you overshot on your second shift tonight," he says quietly, twisting sharply with his fingers.

Dylan closes his eyes and arches his back a little; it pushes his chest up into Marner's hand, but it doesn't relieve the pressure at all. He bites his lip, then gasps and lets his mouth fall open when Marner leans in just that little bit more and kisses him. It's a fight; of course it is. Dylan doesn't know how to relate to Marner without sharp edges, and he doesn't know how to be anything but okay with that. He tries to give as good as he's getting, but every time he adjusts Marner moves his fingers and Dylan loses the thread all over again.

"Color," Marner finally says, letting go of Dylan's nipple and sitting back on Dylan's hips so he can stare down.

"I," Dylan says dizzily. His chest aches, skin buzzing and prickling now that Marner's let go.

Marner leans in closer, scanning Dylan's expression for something. "Color," he repeats, quieter this time. "I need you to tell me, Stromer. I'm not gonna keep going unless you're good."

Colors, Dylan thinks. Red for stop, yellow for talking, or—"Green," he says, voice barely even a whisper.

"Good," Marner says, voice still soft. "Thanks for telling me."

It's a little off-putting, Dylan thinks, being thanked like that; he frowns and opens his mouth, but Marner grinds his hips back again, rubbing up against Dylan, and all he can do is groan and thrust against him until Marner kneels up again.

It goes on like that. Marner tells him in no uncertain terms what he fucked up and when, and then he scratches down Dylan's chest or bites at Dylan's collarbone or pinches around the edge of a bruise he's already got. Dylan clutches at the bedspread beneath his body and pants, pushing into it and drawing away, and he sinks into the whole experience, the feelings, the words that he can only make out when he struggles to focus on them. The only thing that anchors him is Marner pulling back and asking him for a color, talking to him softly until Dylan can pull together a reply. It feels almost like a reward when Marner gives him something to rub against every time he gets an answer out, but Dylan's way too into it to give a shit at this point.

It doesn't seem like Marner's following any sort of pattern or plan with the marks he's leaving all over Dylan. He bites a trail of hickeys across his abs, leans back up to work at a bruise on his arm, plays with Dylan's nipples until he thinks he's going to cry, then keeps pushing until he does. Dylan has completely lost track of everything that's not in bed with him by the time Marner pulls back and stares down at him.

"Color," he says, which Dylan was expecting.

"Green," Dylan says. "I'm good, I'm good, please."

Marner smiles down at him, sweat dripping down his face. He reaches down and puts two fingers against Dylan's lips, a weirdly intimate shushing gesture. "I'm gonna ask you a question, and I need you to think before you answer it, so don't say anything until I move my fingers," he says. "I'm going to get you off soon. Do you want a choice in how, or do you want me to decide?"

Dylan opens his mouth, but Marner presses his fingers down. "Think for a few seconds, god," he says, rolling his eyes.

It's familiar enough to bring Dylan back online a little; he doesn't really want to admit it out loud, but this whole thing of Marner's has worked really, really well for him so far. Part of him wants to get some control back, but mostly he's fine with just letting Marner have his way.

When Marner pulls his fingers away and nods, Dylan licks his lips. "You decide," he says, and he definitely ignores the trembling feeling in his stomach when Marner gives him a brilliant smile, there and gone again in a heartbeat.

"Okay," Marner says, leaning in until their faces are close. "Okay, but remember. You say a color, you tell me to stop, I do."

"Yeah," Dylan croaks out. "I know."

Marner nods and pulls back, surveying Dylan for a moment before he puts his hand in the middle of Dylan's chest. "Stay," he says sternly, then pushes himself up and off. He gets off the bed and Dylan turns his head, watching as Marner leans over and unzips a pocket in his overnight bag. He turns around and comes back to the bed, and Dylan can see the label of the lube he can never wash off and a package of something he can't quite make out as Marner drops them next to him. He taps Dylan's thigh. "Boxers off, then spread your legs."

Dylan only thinks to push the boundaries after he's already done it, but closing his legs again at this point would probably not get him off any sooner. He grunts when Marner uses his thigh as a brace to climb back onto the bed, but he doesn't say a word.

The lube clicks open, and a moment later, Marner's hand trails up the inside of his thigh. The lube is exactly as cold as Dylan figured it would be, but Marner doesn't waste time spreading it around; instead, he grips Dylan's calf with his clean hand and pushes until Dylan draws his foot up onto the bed, bending his knee and leaving himself exposed.

"Remember that party trick you showed me?" Marner murmurs, breath ghosting over Dylan's thigh.

He does his best not to shiver. "Which one?"

Marner traces around Dylan's hole with his fingers, pressing with no real intent. "When you took two right away. Is that something you need to warm up to?"

"Oh," Dylan says, feeling his face somehow flush even more. "I can do it."

"Oh, good," Marner says, and that's all the warning Dylan gets before Marner pushes firmly, fingers sliding in shallowly. He bites at Dylan's thigh as Dylan makes a noise he had no idea he could make, back bowing as Marner twists his fingers. It's a lot, it's so much, and Dylan takes a shuddering breath and rides the feeling.

Dylan twists the bedspread in his hands and has the sudden, random thought that they should have put a towel down, should have thought this through before making such a mess. It's far too late for that now; Marner is thrusting three fingers into him smoothly, curving them up and rubbing at Dylan's prostate every time he worries a new mark into Dylan's thigh. Dylan feels like he's going to come any second, like he's been ready to forever, and he reaches for his dick without giving it any further thought. He's not surprised when Marner pins his wrist to the bed, but it does get him to open his mouth. "Come on," he gasps, clutching his thigh with his other hand. His fingertips bite into the muscle, and it's another sweet humming note of sensation. "I'm so— _please_."

"There you go," Marner croons, pulling his fingers out. He lets go of Dylan's wrist and grabs for the lube, squirting more onto his fingers before pushing back in hard, relentless. He leans back in and bites sharply at the top of Dylan's thigh, high enough that the mark will sting when he walks, and Dylan lets out a shuddering sob. He wants to jack himself off, but he's so, so sure that Marner will pin his hand again, will take his fingers out and _stop_ and Dylan will never get off.

"Please," he whimpers out again. "Green, green, good, I just need—"

Marner leans up and wraps his lips around the head of Dylan's cock, sucking gently as he twists his fingers, and Dylan shakes as he comes. He's gasping for air, face pressed to the pillow as tears drip across his face, and Marner doesn't stop, keeps his fingers moving and his lips working until Dylan's shuddering and crying.

"Stop," he croaks out, and Marner instantly pulls off, stilling his fingers inside Dylan.

"I'm gonna pull out," Marner says, sounding breathless. "Stay still for me, okay?"

Dylan nods, too wrung-out to bother fighting, but he can't help shivering as Marner pulls his fingers out. He grabs for something on the bed as he sits back on his heels, and Dylan realises that the other thing Marner had grabbed from his bag was a package of wipes. He cleans his fingers quickly, then looks at Dylan. "Color."

"Green," Dylan murmurs, closing his eyes. "You gonna get off?"

Marner hesitates for long enough that Dylan forces his eyes open. There's a weird look on Marner's face, but before Dylan can ask, Marner speaks. "You told me to stop, so I was just gonna…" He nods at the bathroom.

Dylan frowns. "Huh?"

"I told you I would stop if you said stop," Marner says, tone way more patient than the frustrated expression on his face would lead Dylan to believe. "I'm not gonna—"

"You stopped," Dylan interrupts. "I said green after. I just needed you to stop jerking me off, man, shit gets sensitive." He looks down at himself: he's sticky, sweaty, bruised. He gestures at the thigh Marner had put such work into marking up. "Rub off on me, c'mon."

Marner's eyes go dark. "You sure?"

"Don't you wanna mark up your work even more?" Dylan replies. The further he gets from his orgasm, the more he wants to push back, to grab at the ends of the control he'd let slip and tug it back into place. He lets his fingers trail down, presses into the hickeys on his leg. He hisses when it makes them throb, and his dick gives a pained little twitch against his leg.

"You're a fucking menace," Marner says, voice a little hoarse, but he knee-walks up the bed and straddles Dylan's thigh. Dylan probably isn't going to be able to forget the way he looks right now: face blotchy and sweaty, hair half-plastered to his head, eyes intense, mouth red and lips swollen. He's gonna jerk off to it for a long time, and part of him hates how most of him is totally fine with that.

"C'mon," Dylan goads. His hand is still on his thigh, so he reaches out and squeezes Marner's dick. "Gonna do it?"

"Fuck off," Marner chokes, leaning forward and bracing himself on his arms above Dylan. He starts moving his hips, quick thrusts into Dylan's hand, but Dylan suddenly wants skin on skin, wants him rubbing against the marks he'd left. He pulls his hand out from between them and uses it to press at the small of Marner's back, encouraging him down, down.

Marner doesn't hesitate now. It's probably a little too rough with no lube, but Marner drops his head against Dylan's shoulder and thrusts against him. Dylan cups his head with his free hand and turns his head so his nose is brushing Marner's hair. "You're such a fucking mess right now," Dylan says softly, biting at the ridge of his ear, and Marner shudders and comes all over him.

He collapses there and Dylan lets him without really knowing why .The need for skin-to-skin hasn't faded, and even though they're both already gross and are only going to get more so, Dylan would rather stay like they are for as long as Marner will lay there.

He'll think about it later. Or, you know, never. Never sounds good.

-0-

Dylan wakes up sticky and sore and way, way overheated. At some point Marner rolled off of him, but he's pressed all along Dylan's side, and he's dead to the world beneath the covers that he must have dragged up over them. Dylan grimaces at the absolutely sorry state of the sheets, but there's really nothing he can do about it now; he wonders for a hot second if they're going to charge Marner for extra cleaning costs, then has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It'd serve him right; he never did pay Dylan back for getting the car cleaned.

It takes a little doing to get out of bed without waking Marner up, but Dylan manages it. He picks up his clothing and tiptoes his way into the bathroom, easing the door shut before flicking oh the lights.

"Holy shit," he says, somehow remembering to keep his voice down as he surveys his reflection.

There are marks absolutely everywhere: faint red lines scratched down his abs, clear teeth marks in his shoulder, bruises and hickeys littered all over his torso. He looks like an absolute train wreck, and when he lifts his fingers and presses on the bruise on the curve of his neck, he shivers and tries not to remember too hard. He's got a bus to catch, and he's really fucking lucky that he managed to wake up without an alarm going off.

He cleans up as well as he can with a washcloth and soapy water; he owes himself a really long shower, but not until he's back in Erie. He pulls on yesterday's clothing and stares: in the mirror, you can only see the one mark, the bruise blossoming up over his shirt collar. It makes him flush, but he definitely doesn't have time to do anything about it now, so he takes a breath and opens the door back into the room.

Leaving while Marner's asleep seems like cheating, but it also sounds way better than waking him up to say goodbye. Dylan has no idea what the fuck last night was, beyond really, really good, but it's also way, way over the lines of the sort of shit they normally do together. He finally decides it's the better part of valor to just go, so he lets himself out and beelines for his and Connor's room on the other side of the hotel.

Connor's already awake and ready to go, because of course he is. He lets Dylan pack his shit up in silence, but then he stands next to the bed and looks at Dylan until Dylan caves. "What?"

"He showed up here just to call us losers," Connor says. He probably means to sound indignant, but there's hurt in there too, buried under the rest of what's in his voice.

Dylan shrugs. "Not really. I mean, he showed up to call _me_ a loser. It's different."

"How?" Connor asks, shoving at Dylan's shoulder. It's right over one of the marks Marner had left, blossoming purple and livid across his skin, and Dylan flinches away a little. Connor notices, because of course he does, and his eyes narrow even as his voice goes quiet. "What the hell did you guys even do last night?"

"I can tell you, but you can't un-know," Dylan says, trying for nonchalant. His heart is pounding in his chest, though. Connor knows that he and Marner fool around, sort of, but none of the details. Dylan's sure he would've tried to stop it if Dylan had told him anything about it, and he hadn't wanted that. Still doesn't want it, but Connor is Connor, and Dylan's sick of keeping this from him.

"Tell me anyway," Connor says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Dylan's eyes slide to the door, but the bolt is still thrown from when he walked in. He shrugs and pulls his shirt up over his head, tossing it to his bed and staring at it so he doesn't have to meet Connor's eyes.

"Holy _shit_ ," Connor says, voice a little faint. Dylan knows what he looked like half an hour ago walking out of Marner's hotel room, and he knows exactly how much worse he probably looks now, bruises darkening and bite marks standing out against his skin. "Are you… are you okay?"

That's Connor's concerned voice, which makes Dylan actually look at him. "Yeah?" he answers. "Like I said, you can't un-know." He gestures at his chest. "This is... what we do. Usually I'd say he looks just as bad as me, but, uh." He shifts a little on his feet. "That's not really what this time was about, so."

Connor takes a step back, eyes wide. "Wait, he came here to insult your hockey as—as some kind of _foreplay_ , and then he beat the shit out of you, and this is _normal_?"

Dylan coughs and reaches for his shirt. "You wanted to know."

"I thought you guys were just fucking," Connor says, voice rising. "I mean, I don't get it, because I didn't think you even liked him—"

"I don't," Dylan cuts in forcefully, yanking his shirt down over his head. It makes his chest burn, the feeling of the cotton dragging against his skin, but he curls his toes in his shoes to distract himself. "Trust me, I don't like him. At all."

"I don't get it," Connor says, sitting heavily onto Dylan's bed. 

"Now you get why I wouldn't fuck him during the season, at least," Dylan says, trying to lighten the mood as he sits down next to Connor, far enough away that they're not in any danger of brushing against each other. It's the kind of space they usually don't bother with, but Dylan's careful about it now. 

Connor shrugs a little wildly. "I thought it was just a rivalry thing?"

"I mean, it's not _not_ a rivalry thing," Dylan offers.

"What is it, then?"

Dylan picks at a loose thread in the bedspread. It's incredibly ugly; it used to be bright and floral, probably, but it's probably been here longer than Dylan's been playing hockey, and it really needs to be thrown out. It's still in better shape than the one Dylan left Marner sleeping under. "I don't know," he finally answers. "We fuck around. We call each other all sorts of shit. We, uh. There's not much about it that's nice."

"You know, um," Connor says. When Dylan looks up at him, his whole face is blotchy red. "That's not how it usually goes. And you don't have to do it that way, Dyls."

It makes something that's probably too close to a hysterical giggle bubble up in Dylan's chest; he manages to keep it in, somehow. "I've had sex with other people," he says instead. "I know, okay? But…"

"But," Connor prompts when Dylan doesn't continue.

"I don't know," Dylan repeats. "I like it? That doesn't seem like a great way to describe it, but I don't know what else to say." He shrugs a shoulder, feeling the pinpricks of sensation as his skin moves and stretches, as the teeth marks Marner left there pull. 

Connor sighs and rubs at his face. "I don't get it," he says again. "Like, at all. But if you're happy, or, like. If you're good, then I'll just keep my opinions to myself, I guess."

"This is why you're the best," Dylan says, throwing an arm over Connor's shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

He gives no thought to the way Connor presses into all of the marks on his chest. None at all.

-0-

All of the bruising has faded by the time the Combine rolls around, which is good; it kicks everyone's ass so hard that he's glad he doesn't have to explain why he's covered in marks to anyone, fellow prospect or, god forbid, the GM of his future team. It's basically hell, and he manages to avoid Marner almost the whole time.

They haven't spoken. They haven't—

Dylan isn't going to reach out first. There's nothing to reach out _for_. He mostly succeeds in lying to himself, but he's aware that it's a lie, so maybe he's not actually successful. Whatever.

He goes on with his life, does all of the draft prep he can do, smiles for all the cameras and goes along with whatever inane PR things they want him to do. He's good and he knows it; there's a pretty strong consensus that he could be top five, maybe top three. He's trying not to dwell on it, but it's either thinking about that or thinking about Marner, so.

Everything's fine enough until they actually get to Sunrise. It's a lot of fun, or it would be if Marner wasn't sticking to Connor like glue; Dylan wants his best friend for the little bit of time he's allowed to have him, and he wants Marner to… he doesn't know. _Go away_ doesn't fit, but neither does _stick around_. They can't do anything here, not with all the cameras and all the stress, but Dylan kind of wants to back him into a wall and bite at his jaw and make him come in his pants anyway. He'd been right in Oshawa; he's jerked off to the way Marner looked that night more than anything else since then. It's not that his mental images are losing their luster, but he'd love to have some new material.

Still, Dylan's handling himself. He's happy enough hanging out with Hanifin and Crouse and a bunch of the other guys, and it's frankly a little hilarious how much Eichel just doesn't want to be a part of the whole expedition. It's all well and good until they're out on the boat in the middle of the Everglades, Marner all over Connor with every jerk and turn of the boat, and Eichel leans over and nudges Dylan's arm. "I can't even tell which one you're jealous of," he says, laughing and nodding at Marner and Connor. "I mean, I'd guess McDavid because you two are besties, but the look on your face is giving me mixed signals here." He makes a face that's probably supposed to imitate Dylan's expression, but it makes something in Dylan's stomach drop instead.

"Fuck off," he grumbles, shoving at Eichel's shoulder. They're not friends, but they're friendly enough; Dylan gets how it can be hard for Eichel to actually be friends with anyone who's so close to Connor, but he's made at least a little bit of an effort. 

Eichel rubs at his shoulder and gives Dylan the hairy eyebrow. "You know," he says loftily, "maybe you should've gone to college, too. Maybe you could've learned to use your words."

Dylan flips him the finger with both hands, and it makes Eichel laugh. Hanifin is raising his eyebrows pretty pointedly, but he's on the other side of the boat. Dylan can and will ignore him.

"I'm just saying," Eichel continues, waggling his eyebrows. He's a disaster, honestly. "I'm pretty sure if you wanted up on that, Marner would be into it. He's been looking back here at you, too."

Dylan's stomach swoops and seizes, and he's never been seasick a day in his life, but he's wondering if his luck's about to change. "Shut up," he hisses, leaning over and grabbing Eichel's wrist. He doesn't squeeze, but it's all he can do to convince his fingers to stay loose. "Don't even—don't joke."

Eichel gives him an oddly serious look and doesn't even try to take his hand back. "Why would I joke about that?" he asks after a moment. He looks offended, but not pissed. "I'm not that much of a dick, Stromer, but thanks for thinking I am."

That's it; Dylan needs out of this conversation. He drops Eichel's wrist and stands, walking over to sit next to Crouse just as Connor dares him to eat a worm. It's a good enough distraction, and the look on Eichel's face when Crouse actually does it is _hilarious_.

-0-

He doesn't—

Dylan tries to be as honest with himself as he can be, as a rule. It's a lot harder to be surprised by something if you take the time to know about it, and that's true whether it's useless American history shit for a test or ways to handle a two-on-one rush when you're the one. It's generally true about personal shit, too, and Dylan's quickly coming to terms with the fact that he's been ignoring the situation with Marner for way longer than he probably should have.

He's standing in front of Connor's hotel room door the night before they're set to be drafted. Connor has been his go-to for problem-solving for two solid years now; Dylan's going to lose him soon, to distance and time and all that other shit that he hates thinking about, but he thinks that this is something that Connor's probably been waiting to talk to him about. Maybe. Or he's been trying to forget all about it, which Dylan really wouldn't blame him for.

The door opens before Dylan knocks, and Connor rolls his eyes at him. "Now you don't have to decide whether or not you want to knock," he says, moving aside. "Get in here already."

Dylan walks in and sits heavily on Connor's bed. "So," he starts.

"So," Connor says, sitting next to him. "Is this pre-draft nerves, or is this about the way Marns was hanging all over me to see if you'd get jealous enough to talk to him?"

"What?" Dylan asks. He can feel his face flushing. "That's not what he was doing, what the fuck."

"It's absolutely what he was doing," Connor says. "He told me that's what he was doing. I told him to talk to you like an actual fucking grown-up, but he just laughed and put a snake on me, so I guess that didn't work."

"Why would he even," Dylan says faintly.

"You know what, I think he might have been lying a little," Connor says, making a face. "He was probably trying to make you jealous enough to… I don't know, bite him." He flaps a hand at Dylan. "Whatever it is you guys do."

"Bite him," Dylan echoes. "What the fuck."

"I don't know," Connor says. "I still don't get it, but he was pretty into the idea of you noticing him being all in my space."

"Eichs noticed," Dylan says. "He said so, on the boat."

Connor snorts. "He was so busy trying not to look at all the nature that he probably picked up on everything else," he says, amused. "He's not wrong, though."

"What the fuck," Dylan repeats.

"Y'know, I'm gonna go out on a limb here," Connor says. "Talk to Marns."

"No," Dylan says, instant and immediate. "No, that's not—"

Connor throws his hands up. "What do you want me to say here, then?"

Dylan stares at a point on the floor. Ugly carpet is ugly carpet in hotels all around the continent, so there's nothing really to stare at, but he finds a spot and looks determinedly at it. "I don't like him," he says slowly.

"Okay," Connor says, dragging it out to make it clear that he doesn't believe it.

"I don't," Dylan says. "But I think—"

Neither of them says anything for a moment, but Connor moves a little closer, pressing against Dylan's side comfortably. "You think what?" he asks.

"I think I might be in love with him?" he says, shoving a hand through his hair. He laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. "Which doesn't make any fucking sense, but here we are."

"Here we are," Connor agrees. "That's, uh. I mean, I get it even less now, I think, but you really need to talk to him."

"I don't want to," Dylan says, trying for honesty and ending up mostly in whining territory. "It works, so why can't I just let it keep working?"

" _Is_ it working?" Connor asks, way too perceptive for his own good. "Because Marns said you guys haven't talked since you snuck out of his room in Oshawa, and he didn't want to say anything in case he fucked up and you…" He grimaces. "He got a little graphic, honestly, and I'm gonna just… let you imagine that part, okay, but if you think it's working, then you should probably let him know that."

"Fuck," Dylan says miserably. "Can't I just stress about the draft like everybody else is doing? Can I maybe not have a sort-of crisis tonight?"

"No," Connor says, because he's actually an asshole. Then, because he's also Dylan's best friend, he adds, "I don't think he'd be so into getting your attention if he didn't want you to talk to him, Dyls."

Dylan swallows and nods. "Guess not."

"Do it," Connor says, clapping him on the shoulder. It's his captain voice, take no bullshit all the way through, and Dylan's done stupider things when Connor's broken out that voice. None more terrifying, though.

"Yeah," Dylan says, standing up. "Guess I'm gonna." Connor gives him a thumbs-up as he lets himself out of the room, and Dylan rolls his eyes but gives him one back.

It's not like he doesn't know where Marner is; the PR people had been pretty prompt about letting all of the top prospects know where they'd all be at what times, and that included a listing of everyone's room numbers. Dylan hadn't purposely memorised Marner's, but it had stuck in his head anyway, so he turns and walks down the hall and stops in front of the door.

There's faint noise coming from inside; he's still awake, at least, and it sounds like TV, so Dylan's probably not interrupting anything. _Get your shit together,_ he thinks, and before he can chicken out of it, he reaches out and knocks on the door.

Marner opens it a moment later, and he looks—

"Fuck," Dylan blurts out, getting a hand on Marner's shoulder and shoving him back into the room. He kicks the door shut behind them and spins, pushing Marner up against it. Marner doesn't fight him, just hitches his leg around Dylan's waist and pulls him down, biting at his mouth when Dylan leans in. Dylan grabs Marner's bare shoulders and holds him against the door, pulling back so he can stare down at him. "I hate you," he says, voice trembling a little bit. "I hate you so fucking much, but—"

"I don't have to like you to want you," Marner says. His face is flushed and his lips are red, and Dylan wants a lot of things, but more than anything else he wants to make himself perfectly clear here.

Dylan leans in and bites at Marner's earlobe, sharp enough to sting but not enough to hurt, not really. Dylan knows where that line is, and he's not anywhere near it. "How bad would it fuck you up if I said I'm pretty sure I love you as much as I hate you?" he says quietly.

He feels Marner jerk against him, but he takes advantage of their position and the way he's really a lot bigger than Marner is to keep him where hs is. "Stromer," Marner says, knocking his head sideways into Dylan's. Enough to sting, not to hurt; maybe they're closer to the same page than Dylan thought.

"How bad?" Dylan repeats.

"Not as bad as you're hoping, maybe," Marner says. "I don't know how to _like_ you. I don't want to be nice to you, I don't want to stop fucking around like we've been doing."

"I don't either," Dylan says immediately.

"But you cutting me out, fucking off in the middle of the night and then ignoring me for two months," Marner goes on, as if Dylan hadn't said anything, "I sure as fuck don't ever want _that_ again."

"Was I supposed to wake you up for a goodbye kiss?" Dylan asks, finally pulling back so he can raise an eyebrow at Marner.

"You were supposed to text me after," Marner says sharply. "Do you know how far inside your own head you were? I thought I fucked you up in ways that aren't fun for either one of us, and I thought that if I said anything it'd make it worse. I was trying to get info out of Davo, and he was stonewalling me, too."

Dylan's gut twists. "Hey, no. I'm fine. Green, right? I told you that."

"You were so far down," Marner repeats, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the door. "Don't get me wrong, it was really fucking good, but by the time I woke up, you were halfway back to Erie and I had no way to know if you were _okay_."

"And then I ignored you for two months," Dylan says. He feels like his stomach is clawing its way up and out of his chest. "Fuck. You should have said something."

"If what I did, if that had fucked you up like I thought, then saying something could have made it a hell of a lot worse," Marner says without opening his eyes. "Do you actually have a clue what this shit is, what we've been doing? Because I've done a lot of reading."

"There's reading?" Dylan asks, surprised enough to let go and take a step back.

Marner smiles sharply. "Of course there's reading," he says. He finally opens his eyes. "I knew you'd lose eventually. Most people would want to be coddled after that, but fuck that noise, am I right?" Dylan pulls a face, and Marner laughs. "Yeah, exactly. So I needed to figure out what to actually do, hence the reading."

"Why?" Dylan asks.

"Because you needed it," Marner says with more patience than he normally has for Dylan.

Dylan shakes his head. "Yeah, no, not denying that. But, like." He swallows. "Why'd you bother? It's not like we're…" He doesn't want to say _dating_ because that's fucking obvious, but he's not sure what else to put there.

Marner levels him with a look but doesn't say anything. This is important, though; Dylan might not have done any of the reading, but he's sure of that much, so he just waits. Finally, Marner shakes his head a little. "I don't like you," he says, and Dylan nods. "But I don't feel _nothing_. You're… important to me, I guess. And I knew you'd need me, so I made sure I was ready."

Dylan feels like he's reeling on the inside, but he forces himself to shake his head a little. "There's _reading_ ," he says, still a little bit in disbelief. "People have actually written, what, wiki articles on how to correctly harass the shit out of each other during sex?"

"I'm gonna email you so much shit," Marner says, snorting. "And we're not gonna do anything with clothes off until you actually fucking read it, because I don't want either of us fucking it up." He looks dead serious when he meets Dylan's eyes again. "I can give you the basic run-down, though, and rule one is fucking talk to me."

"Yeah, I picked up on that one," Dylan mutters. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am."

"Of course you're not," Marner says. "I don't actually think you're stupid at all. Uninformed, sure, but not ignorant."

It's possibly the nicest thing Marner's ever said about him, and Dylan isn't sure how to handle it. "I'll do your fucking reading," he says instead of thanking him. "I don't… I don't wanna fuck this up either."

"Okay, so we've got some work to do," Marner says, laughing a little. He finally moves away from the door, right into Dylan's space. Hs shoves both hands under the hem of Dylan's shirt, curling them around his waist, and his eyes are challenging as he smirks up at Dylan. "Are you actually willing to do it, or does your lazy act on the ice carry over here, too?"

"Guess you're gonna have to find out," Dylan replies, leaning down and loving the way Marner rises up to meet him.

He'll put in the work. Marner's got no idea, but Dylan will show him. He'll definitely put in the fucking work.

**Author's Note:**

> -JUST FUCKING TALK TO EACH OTHER GOD
> 
> -if there's anything you think i should have tagged for that's missing, please let me know!
> 
> -the title of this cracks me up, mostly because it's a song lyric that makes the whole fic _a lot worse_ , so. cookies for people who get it!
> 
> -[follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for a lot of shrieking about the world cup, currently, but hockey always.


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